


The Darkness Within

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Cock Rings, Drug-Induced Sex, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Out of Character, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3969317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as a dire situation can sometimes bring out the best in people, it can also bring out the worst. In this pre-series story, it brings out the worst in Peter. When Neal is almost fatally wounded, Peter takes advantage of an opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beware: This is not a story for Peter lovers. He is a very dark character in this scenario. You have been warned! So, if you decide to read, do not rain hate down on me when he behaves out of character.

     The tip came from one of his street people—the anonymous army of the ragged and dirty who prowled the avenues and alleys of Manhattan. Although inhabiting the same space as their prosperous, urban brothers and sisters of the metropolis, they were rarely acknowledged. The good citizens of New York City would either avert their eyes when confronted with their presence, or look right through them as if they were invisible.

     However, Peter Burke, a clever and calculating man, saw the auspicious potential. He reasoned that this vast network of the homeless could be utilized if motivated by the right incentives. It had worked for the fictional British sleuth, Sherlock Holmes, and the FBI agent found that it worked for him as well. Over time, these shadowy figures were the unacknowledged detectives in his arsenal, moving in and out of the dark and dangerous spaces, and always eagerly ready to parlay information into generous rewards. Their intel was almost never wrong. The unspoken caveat was that the future would be bleak for them if they delivered anything less than promised.

     One evening as Peter left the FBI building, a bearded, grizzled man clad in an army veteran’s jacket, clumsily maneuvered his overfilled shopping cart along the sidewalk. When abreast of the FBI agent, several items fell from the mountains of junk, and, as the vagrant bent over to retrieve them, he made eye contact with Peter. Those eyes were clear with the hint of shrewdness. Unobtrusively, Peter dug into his pocket, peeled two crisp twenties off the roll and extended them towards one of his oldest and most reliable contacts.

     “The one that you have been pursuing for so long—a warehouse in Long Island City.” It was a mumbled utterance followed up with an address slipped into his pocket with a swift, slight of hand that rivaled a Vegas magician. Then the man was on his way again.

**********

     Peter drove his car over the 59th Street Bridge to the westernmost borough of Queens. Long Island City, located in that neighborhood, was noted for its rapid and ongoing residential growth and gentrification, its waterfront parks, and its thriving art community. It had the highest concentration of art galleries, art institutions, and studio space of any neighborhood in New York City.

     Another look at the scrawled address brought the FBI agent to 37th Avenue, almost at the juncture of 13th Street. A mid-sized grouping of industrial buildings, apparently unpopulated at this late hour, was flanked by an equally quiet and unlit warehouse on the end. Peter exited his car, freed his gun from his shoulder harness, and grabbed the small but powerful halogen flashlight that he kept in the glove box. Without turning the light on yet, he cautiously made his way around the exterior perimeter of the building, peering into dirty, smeared windows at every available opportunity. His careful reconnaissance afforded him no insights as to what lay beyond the doors. He was now fully prepared to utilize the lock pick set that he had in his pocket, but to his surprise, playing cat burglar wasn’t necessary. The door to the building was just slightly ajar. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. This smelled of a perfect set-up—a trap that was luring him in. Peter, however, decided to throw caution to the wind. The prize that he sought was worth the danger.

     With the powerful torch now seated above the hand holding his weapon, he gingerly pushed open the door and strafed the light and gun in tandem around the dim reaches of the cavernous space. At first, all he perceived was emptiness, but on a second sweep a bit lower, he could make out the dark outline of a figure slumped against one of the supporting cinderblock columns. With slow, measured steps, he approached as he simultaneously shouted, “FBI—don’t move!”

     The dark figure didn’t flinch, didn’t startle, didn’t move at all, and now Peter feared the worst. As he neared his quarry, he noticed the ominous, dark pool that had congealed and dried on concrete already stained with motor oil and questionable other substances. He smelled the coppery smell of blood as well as another nauseating stench. He crouched down and aimed his light at the pale, still face. While continuing to hold the gun in his right hand, the fingers of his left hand fumbled for a pulse on the side of the neck. It was there, faint and racing, under skin that was hot to the touch.

     Peter finally holstered his weapon and took stock of the young, elusive conman who had outmaneuvered him with methodical precision in a high-stakes game of cat-and-mouse for the past three years. With the flashlight now clenched between his teeth, he tore at Neal Caffrey’s clothes to assess his injuries. Apparently, the only wound was a through-and-through to his right upper thigh. If the puddle of dried blood under the leg hadn’t given it away, the stench from a festering, pus-filled hole would have. Using a pocketknife, the agent tore away the fabric of dark jeans to reveal an angry and deeply infected wound. Caffrey was obviously septic, probably in shock, and, even with treatment, might not survive.

     Peter shook his head in anger. This was not how this was supposed to end! Not on a dirty floor in an abandoned warehouse far from the upscale lights and glitz of their familiar stomping grounds. Neal deserved better than being left to rot like yesterday’s garbage by some malicious criminal with no soul. He deserved a noble and respectable end to his career, and Peter had been determined to be the impetus behind that finale. He was Peter’s prize to win.

     Over the years, the antagonists had come to know each other so well. They were evenly matched opponents, each bringing their A-Game to the table in every challenge of wits. They respected and applauded each other’s genius and lauded the talents of their rival. The capture, when it happened, was supposed to be a fantastic and stupendous finale of Peter finally outsmarting his worthy adversary. This—this travesty in a warehouse—was just not a fitting finish to their story!

     Peter decided, right then and there, to fashion his own ending to their saga. Hoisting the loose-limbed conman over his shoulder, he exited what would have been Caffrey’s mausoleum, and carefully loaded him into the back seat of the Taurus. He covered him with a blanket from the recesses of his trunk. During all of the manhandling, there was not even a weak moan to give Peter the smallest vestige of hope. Nonetheless, he quickly sped back to the city, finally pulling into an alley behind a pawnshop in Lower Manhattan. Without ceremony, he pounded on the back door until it was opened by a cautious, bespectacled man who may have been of Middle Eastern descent. Peter’s sudden appearance apparently agitated the occupant, but he knew better than to slam the door in the agent’s face.

     Peter had made Amir Maroun’s acquaintance during his early days spent in Vice. The man had supposedly been a doctor in his own country, but couldn’t seem to pass the medical board exams once he took up residence in his adopted country. However, that little inconvenience did not stop him from practicing his craft illegally to anyone with a need and enough money to keep it off the radar. Peter could have busted him years ago, but decided it was better to hold onto a chit for possible use down the road. Tonight, he was calling in that favor.

     “Get the tools of your trade, Amir, and come have a look,” Peter commanded, gesturing to the open back door of his sedan.

     Reluctantly, the dark-skinned man retrieved a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff from somewhere in the recesses of his room. He cautiously approached the vehicle and stared at the incapacitated man stretched out on the back seat, vaguely illuminated by the anemic light of the car’s headlamp. He gave Peter a nasty grimace as he pulled back the blanket and began his examination.

     “This man already has one foot in the next world, Agent Burke. He needs to be in a hospital if he is going to survive, and even then, the eventual outcome is iffy. You can’t dump him on me. I just treat ‘em and street ‘em. I don’t dispose of dead bodies.”

     Peter grabbed the doctor by the thin material of his shirt. “You don’t dictate to me, Buddy. You are going to do as I ask. I want you to fill my trunk with everything that I am going to need to save this man’s life. Everything—and lots of it. Now get your ass moving!”

     Fifteen minutes later, the well of the trunk overflowed with intravenous fluids, sterile dressings and antibiotics—lots and lots of antibiotics. The physician then began to specify the course of treatment.

     “I’ve given you three different generations of antibiotics that cover a wide spectrum of gram positive and gram negative microbes as well as some antifungals. Right now, the prime objective is to reverse the impending septic shock. I have given you several boxes of saline bags, needles, and intravenous tubing. If you can get access to a vein, open the stopcock wide and dump lots of fluids into him while you administer each of the antibiotics in turn. Keep repeating the process every six hours if he is still alive. There is also an antibiotic solution that I have mixed up that you should use to irrigate the wound after you have cleaned it and removed as much of the pus as possible. If he becomes responsive at all, that is going to be excruciating, so I have included some morphine and some Dilaudid. Use them sparingly, as they tend to depress respirations, and his status is already precarious.”

     Peter then handed the man a handwritten list that he had compiled while the supplies were being loaded. The doctor raised his eyebrows, but made no comment. Eventually he returned with the adjunct medicines from the list. He was only too happy to see the FBI agent’s taillights as he left the alley.


	2. Chapter 2

     Normally, the drive to Upstate New York took three hours. Under the cover of darkness, with little traffic at this late hour, and with Peter’s speed hovering just under 85 mph, the tense man at the wheel had cut thirty minutes from his journey. Peter had inherited a small, isolated cabin just south of the Adirondack Mountains after his parents had passed away. His only sibling, a sister, had long ago moved to California with her family, and was simply not interested in returning to New York. Peter had toyed with the idea of selling the place at some point, but had never gotten around to it. Occasionally, he would come up to check that no pipes had burst during the winter, and to commune with nature in the quiet setting. Usually, three days was about all that he could tolerate at one time. Tonight, the tiny cottage would be his triage area in an attempt to save a life.

     Peter pulled his sedan onto the crushed gravel, almost right up to the door of the structure. He exited the car, unlocked the darkened house, and made quick work of flipping switches for lighting and heating from the propane-powered furnace. Taking a deep breath, he returned to carry in his unconscious burden, who still showed no signs of life. He placed Neal gently onto the only bed in the house. The young man looked even paler than when Peter had first found him. His respirations were shallow, but a rapid pulse still bounded in his neck.

     “Stay with me, Caffrey,” Peter breathed. “I’ve got you now, so just hold on with everything that you’ve got!”

     Peter was a realist. He knew the odds were very good that Neal wouldn’t last through the night. Then he would have a dead man on his hands. If that happened, Peter would bury him here amidst the quiet mountain serenity—at peace for all eternity. He would mark his final resting place with a stone cairn, and Peter, alone, would return time and again to mourn him. The cabin in the woods would never be sold.

     But Neal was not dead yet, and, with a renewed determination, Peter made several trips ferrying in the medical supplies. A wire coat hanger and an exposed picture hanger hook worked perfectly for suspending intravenous bags of fluids. He quickly primed the tubing, then began unbuttoning the conman’s shirt and removing it. Peter was unprepared for what was revealed. Neal’s smooth chest was well developed and firmly chiseled. His long torso tapered down to a flat abdomen, its musculature sharp and defined. The conman’s build was on the slight side, so Peter never expected to see the perfect proportion and symmetry hidden underneath his clothes. He really should not have been surprised.

     Time after time, he had watched in fascination as Neal athletically scaled walls, hung from cables and parkoured his way off rooftops with ease. You had to have great upper body strength for those feats of daring. For just a second, the agent allowed his palm to coast lightly down the length of the conman’s breastbone, stopping at the deep oval of his navel. That brief touch seemed to ground Peter, as he felt the ferocious heat emanating from the man’s skin.

     Peter now set about the more daunting task of accessing a vein. How hard could that be? He had witnessed addicts jonesing for a fix stick needles into their arms with shaking fingers and hit the mark first time out. Utilizing the elastic strap that the good doctor had included in the supplies, Peter tapped the inside of Neal’s elbow trying to tease a vein to rise up. The conman’s spent body did not cooperate, so, by the dim bedroom light, the agent gingerly aimed for the pale blue line that he could only vaguely visualize. The needle glided into the skin smoothly, a slight pop was felt, and Peter was rewarded for his efforts with a flashback of blood in the tubing. Securing the site with tape, he allowed the saline to flow at full tilt. Fifteen minutes later, another bag replaced the first. After that, the smaller bags containing the life-saving antibiotics followed, one after the other.

     Peter sat back after the first salvo had been fired in this war to save his nemesis. It was time for the next phase of the battle to begin—cleaning the wound. He tugged and pulled until he had removed Neal’s shoes and jeans. Peter was gratified to hear the young conman moan faintly as Peter jostled his right leg. That was the first time that anything had escaped his lips. This welcome, albeit weak awareness gave rise to a new spark of hope in Peter’s chest. He was a bit more gentle as he pulled down the tight boxer shorts.

     The FBI agent stared down at the vision before him. Neal was perfection, his body an anatomical miracle that would have made Michelangelo rub his hands in anticipation and pick up his chisel. Supple hips, sculpted and proportioned thighs, and, ultimately, a thick, well-endowed penis nestled between those thighs had Peter frozen in place. The older man felt the longings that he had tried to subjugate for a lifetime emerge with a vengeance.

     Peter had the first inking of his preference while still in junior high. However, he dutifully played the part of a macho jock all through high school, and was probably the only lusty graduating senior who had not gotten laid after prom. He had the occasional dalliance with like-minded males while in college, but after entering the realm of law-enforcement, he stayed deeply within the closet. He was nobody’s fool. Nothing had really changed with people’s attitudes no matter how much lip service they gave to being liberally open-minded and supportive.

     However, mind over matter hadn’t worked for Peter Burke. Taking care of business with his own hand was less than fulfilling, and he longed for something more. Cognizant of the old warning, “You don’t shit where you eat,” he eventually found release in nearby Philadelphia and, occasionally, Atlantic City. With determined sleuthing, he had ferreted out upscale, discrete service providers in both cities who arranged trysts with “dates” who met his specifications. He had a definite type—lithe, dark haired young men with hard bodies and submissive attitudes who were not adverse to his kinks. That was his life over the years, although the frequent forays away from home had lessened as he got older and was staring the big “5-0” in the face. Now, looking at Neal, he was suddenly as randy as a teenager again.

**********

     Hours later, Neal’s fever still raged. Peter knew that it was the human body’s response to infection. In an attempt to protect itself, the immune system turned up the body’s thermostat to a high temperature so that it could literally cook the invading bacteria. Life-saving fluids now kept him hydrated, but the wounded man remained restless and disoriented. He moved his arms and legs aimlessly and murmured words that Peter couldn’t decipher. Thankfully, the screaming had stopped. Earlier, when Peter had begun to clean and irrigate the leg wound, Neal had practically come up off the bed in agony. That almost unnerved Peter, who hastily injected a small dose of morphine into the IV tubing. Now only occasional weak, pitiful moans escaped his lips.

     Not sure what else to do, Peter brought a basin of cool water and soap to the bedside. With careful hands, he gently rubbed a lathered cloth down Neal’s neck, past his collarbones, across his chest and down his abdomen. He used only his soapy fingers to caress the softness between the conman’s legs. He stroked Neal’s cock and used a thumb to circle the head and the soft ring beneath it. He cradled Neal’s scrotum and pulled it taut while working the shaft with his other hand. Peter was hard and throbbing, but there was no such response from the narcotized man on the bed.

     Eventually, Peter turned the unaware young man onto his side. The washcloth worked its way down faintly freckled shoulders, past a trim, narrowed waist to gloriously rounded buttocks. Pulling the cleft open, Peter gazed at the pink ring of muscle tissue of the anus and slowly glided a soapy finger deep within its depths. The tight resistance made even the invasion of one finger difficult, and Peter knew that, most likely, the conman had utilized his ample cock to please the ladies, while his hind parts had never experienced the appetite of a passionate male lover’s thick presence.

     All of this tender ministration had worked Peter into a passionate state. Sitting back in a chair while gazing at his unconscious patient, the FBI agent freed his own cock and vigorously produced enough friction that the towel barely held the thick streams of cum that seemed to spurt forever. Visions of pushing his heavy, hard penis into Neal and pummeling him into the mattress danced in his head.

     The older man was not surprised by his wistful reverie. In all of his previous sexual encounters, Peter had always been the dominant alpha male. He loved to overpower and restrain compliant young men, then fuck them hard and fast without mercy as they whimpered beneath his more substantial body. He would take them from behind while he bent them over tables or sofas. He would tie them to the headboards of the various hotel beds and then throw their legs over his shoulders as he frontally attacked them again and again with his cock.

     Sometimes, pent-up sexual frustration sent Peter into overdrive, and he would fuck the hired date three or four times before he was satiated. When he just couldn’t get it up another time, he shoved massive dildos into them and found that it was like churning butter—in and out, faster and faster, while the recipient bit down on the sheets to endure the torture. He had a special vibrating dildo that he knew just how to place right over the prostate. He would get his “partner” hard, and then place a tight cock ring on them as he teased their throbbing dicks with fingers and tongue. They would beg for its removal so that they could climax, but Peter wouldn’t relent. Instead, he made them suck on his own flaccid penis. If they could arouse him yet again, then, and only then, would he remove the ring and allow them their release. Even though his “dates” were professionals, he imagined that their well-toned bodies, not to mention their pretty little holes, ached for days after he was through with them. Needless to say, he paid well for his proclivities.


	3. Chapter 3

    It was now day three. The last seventy-two hours had seen Neal still lost in a world of delirium. Occasionally, he would rouse briefly and open blue eyes that didn’t seem to register the world around him. Peter used these short-lived periods of semi-lucidity to get water, chicken broth, or protein shakes into him, and to drag him into the bathroom. Neal still could put little weight on his injured leg, even though the angry red ring surrounding the wound was looking less ominous now that the antibiotics were turning the tide in the war with infection. However, most of Peter’s hours were spent just watching and hoping for a miracle.

     The agent now had a lot of downtime on his hands. He had made a call that first morning to his superior at White Collar citing a family emergency that necessitated his leaving town. He promised that he would continue to be available by phone, if necessary. It was an open-ended leave of absence since who knew what the future held for the FBI agent or the conman.

     Peter had nodded off in the bedside chair early in the afternoon. When he awoke, the first signs of oncoming dusk had begun to darken the windows. He automatically looked at Neal and realized that the bed sheets were soaked around his body. When he touched the young man’s forehead, it was cool to the touch. Finally, the fever had broken and Neal looked peaceful. The agent knew with certainty that awareness was now not far off. Over the last few days of close proximity to the beautiful young man, nebulous longing and temptation had been clawing their way into Peter’s gut. A twisted idea began to solidify. Remaining anonymous was paramount to that plan. Therefore, while the conman was oblivious, his savior quickly changed the bed linens under him, and then used his own tie as a blindfold.

     Peter knew exactly when consciousness had returned to the injured man. Neal had been shifting aimlessly for a few minutes before suddenly becoming completely still. Then his breathing sped up, and his hand was reaching towards his eyes. When Peter immediately trapped that hand in his, Neal went rigid and turned his head to the side.

     “Who’s there?” he asked hoarsely.

     Peter didn’t answer; instead, he gently guided the arm down to the bed at the conman’s side when Neal tried to pull his hand free.

     “Why can’t I see? What’s wrong with my eyes?” Neal asked urgently.

     “Easy,” Peter finally whispered, “I’ll take care of you and everything will be fine.” He had made his voice soft and low so that it was unrecognizable to the conman. “Now you need to eat so that you can heal.” The last words that he uttered sounded reassuring.

     The cream soup was still warm in the thermos and the turkey sandwich sealed tightly in plastic wrap. Peter had prepared everything earlier as he awaited this moment. The agent brought the cup to the dazed conman’s mouth. For a minute, he thought that the young man would balk, but finally he was gratified to see him obediently begin to drink. Peter followed up with the sandwich that he held intermittently against his captive’s mouth. In between bites, he nudged the barbiturate-laced tea to unsuspecting lips. The drug was just the first from the personal stash that the less than legitimate physician had provided. As anticipated, the sedative worked its magic not long after the spartan meal was over. Neal’s breathing became deeper and his limbs pliable and yielding. Only half-aware, he made no more attempts to explore the binding across his eyes.

     Peter then pulled the light cover off that glorious body and allowed his hands to roam slowly over its contours. Neal inhaled deeply, but did not fully awaken. Emboldened and eager, the agent’s caresses became more focused, and he got busy with his mouth as well. He sucked gently on what he hoped was an erogenous spot on the delicate skin below the ear. All the while, he was rolling and pinching nipples until they became stiff between his fingers. He took each in turn between his teeth and bit down. Neal moaned and his back arched slightly off the bed. Peter smiled in satisfaction.

     Eventually his tongue delved into the hollow of Neal’s navel while his hands kneaded the trim waist and down lower over his hips. Then his attention moved south. He nudged the conman’s legs slightly apart and settled his upper body between them, taking Neal’s flaccid penis into his mouth. Neal moaned again, and this urged Peter to be even more demanding. He used his hand to circle the girth of the organ and rub tantalizingly. All the while, he continued to suck the head of the cock in and out of his mouth. Neal was now half-hard, and Peter moved to the next level of teasing. Using saliva to coat his fingers, he pushed one into Neal’s hole. The tranquilized man instinctively tried to move away from the invasion, but Peter’s upper body held him in place.

     Reaming the orifice required dedicated effort. The band of muscle was extremely tight and determined to stay that way. It took over a half hour of patient persistence for Peter to be able to slide two fingers in and out, but that made it possible for him to reach the prostate. He massaged and pressed sensually while he continued to suck on a cock that, to his delight, was now standing at attention.

     “Come for me, Neal,” he breathed softly.

     The young man was now continually moaning incoherently and moving his head from side to side. Peter was pleased with the response and was unrelenting in the exquisite torment that involved fingers and tongue. With an abrupt jerk, cum suddenly spurted over the conman’s abdomen and shoulders. His body shuddered as it pulsed across his body. Peter again smiled in triumph.

     He scooped some of the warm, viscous ribbons into his hand and coated Neal’s hole and his own fingers liberally. With focused intent, he forced the index and middle fingers of both hands into Neal’s opening and pulled sideways. The young man cried out, but Peter was undaunted. He persistently stretched and reamed until three fingers of one hand could now slide easily in and out of the orifice. The older man next hastily availed himself of more of Neal’s cum to coat his own turgid cock. Shoving a pillow under Neal’s hips to elevate his ass, he then slowly and relentlessly pushed himself into that tight hole. His captive yelped, and scrabbled with his fingers trying to get a grip on the bed. Then he weakly tried to move away, but Peter held his hips tightly and continued his assault. The more Neal struggled, the more turned on Peter became so that he found himself losing control and frantically pounding even faster and harder into the young body beneath him. He came with a shout and a groan, collapsing his sweaty torso onto his prey.

     When he had finally caught his breath, he rolled to the side and watched in satisfaction as his own cum now oozed from Neal’s hole. When he looked back at the conman’s face, he realized that at some point during the fucking, Neal had passed out.

     Amir Maroun had been generous with the little blue pills as well as the barbiturates. Peter had taken one while he had fed Neal, so it wasn’t long before his arousal renewed itself. Having been denied gratification for so long, the first time had been swift and brutal. Peter vowed that round two would be at a more leisurely and protracted pace.

     Turning the now dazed and docile man onto his stomach, he pulled him to the edge of the mattress. He spread those beautiful cheeks once again and slid inside the relaxed hole. He watched his own cock advance and retreat slowly, glistening and slick. He could penetrate deeper from this position and could feel the head of his cock hit the prostate time and again. He wondered if Neal was getting hard as well. During this coupling, Peter changed his pace, sometimes slowly sliding in, and then pulling out almost entirely before slamming home with a vengeance.

     Time took on another dimension as he fucked Neal for what seemed like hours. Eventually, he turned the young man onto his back, and was gratified that his captive once again sported an erection. Most likely, the friction from rubbing against the mattress had helped with that, although Peter wanted to believe that his own cock had something to do with it. He carefully positioned Neal’s legs over his shoulders and then entered him easily. As he rode his victim, he held onto Neal’s erection and worked it in his tight fist. When a second ejaculation occurred, Peter felt Neal’s pelvic muscles clamp around him and it was glorious. It sent him over the edge so that he was once again akin to a jackhammer until he found his own release.

**********

     Thus began a routine that continued for the next two days. Peter kept Neal tranquilized, only allowing him to emerge from his stupor to eat and then drink more of the tainted liquids in anticipation of the next round of fucking. Peter noted that his captive seemed to be getting stronger, so when Peter needed to sleep, he used rolls of gauze from the medical supplies to tether his hostage’s wrists to the iron spindles of the headboard. It would not do for Neal to become completely lucid and remove that blindfold. Peter made sure to unknot and discard the bindings before Neal would awaken. In the meantime, Peter took the helpless man over and over in every conceivable position. Purple bruising in the shape of Peter’s fingers adorned the young man’s thighs, and bite marks marred the ivory softness of his buttocks. Neal was an aphrodisiac for Peter, and the little blue pills were a must even though they were dwindling fast.

     There was no telling how long this depraved game would have continued if Peter hadn’t miscalculated. He had overestimated how long Neal would be incoherent, and the young man had swam back to full consciousness before Peter had freed him. Realizing that he was tied down, Neal began to thrash, and the sound awakened Peter, who had taken to sleeping on a cot in the room. Peter tiptoed to the side of the bed and watched in morbid fascination as Neal struggled and panted with the exertion. The gauze around his wrists just tightened that much more securely with every fevered tug.

     Suddenly, the tethered man ceased his struggles and froze. With some sixth sense, he seemed to know that he was not alone in the room. Turning his blindfolded eyes towards Peter’s direction, he began to speak in a voice rough from disuse, but demanding nonetheless.

     “I know you’re here! I can feel you. Who are you?”

     When he got no response, he continued pleadingly, “Look, I don’t know what you want, but whatever it is, I can get it for you. I’ve got money and resources. Just tell me what you want, please. If you let me go, I’ll never tell anyone about this. I’m really good at keeping secrets.”

     Frustrated, or perhaps panicking because of Peter’s continued, mocking silence, Neal suddenly drew back his left knee and kicked out with his good leg. His heel caught Peter on the hip causing deep pain to reverberate through the man’s unsuspecting body. The agent’s breath caught in his throat as he rode out the agony, then he impulsively stepped forward and viciously backhanded Neal across the cheek, momentarily stunning him. Paradoxically, it was as if someone had flipped a switch, and now the evil Mr. Hyde claimed center stage. The benevolent Dr. Jekyll had been dangling carrots; Mr. Hyde would maliciously begin to apply the stick.

   Still seething, Peter retrieved some nylon cord from the depths of a kitchen cabinet. Looping it around the offending leg’s ankle, he pulled the extremity out wide and secured it to the bedframe. Neal whimpered as his injured leg received identical treatment on the other side of the bed. He now lay helpless and spread eagled and very naked as Peter roughly discarded the sheet.

     “Let me go!” Neal bellowed. “Let me go!” he continued to scream.

     Peter’s response was to slap him viciously a second time, then shove the pillow under hips that were already taut and straining from his bonds. Without benefit of any lubricating moisture, Peter’s fingers plunged into Neal’s familiar depths. He found the target gland quickly, and then squeezed repeatedly while Neal keened and moaned. Peter knew the mechanics of basic human physiology, and regardless of Neal’s state of mind, it wasn’t long before he had his captive’s cock erect and weeping a few drops of pre-cum. Peter then quickly secured a short piece of cord tightly to the base of that straining organ. Without his personal sex toys, he would have to improvise a cock ring. He grabbed the trapped, turgid organ and roughly yanked at its length over and over, as Neal writhed with discomfort. Peter’s fingernail dug into the slit at the head, then pinched the soft tissue beneath it. Without warning, he slapped Neal’s erection then pulled and twisted his scrotum. Neal yelped in pain, but he could do nothing to alleviate his own anguish.

     After Peter grew impatient with this torture, he knelt on the bed between Neal’s outstretched legs and forcefully shoved his own engorged organ into the quivering hole. The dry entry drew another yell from Neal, as did the relentless pounding. All during the rape, Peter had one hand wrapped around Neal’s cock. He yanked feverishly in time to his thrusts. Neal’s cries just spurred him on. Eventually, Peter’s orgasm was like an explosion that rocked him to his core.

     Finally pulling out, the sweating and panting man watched as thin trails of blood mingled with oozing cum. The ravages of sexual violence looked incongruous with Neal’s cock still rigid within the improvised cock ring. It made him look eager for more, begging to be tortured and titillated, hungry to prolong their wicked little game. That cock was now Peter’s prime focus. Without warning, his hot mouth drew it in, and he let his teeth graze the delicate skin. Neal froze, unsure if Peter would bite down. Instead, the agent-turned-torturer sucked relentlessly, the slurping sounds joining Neal’s moans.

     After twenty minutes, with adrenalin still coursing through his veins, Peter was rock hard once more. Fucking Neal’s hole was less traumatic this time since there was lubrication present. To Peter’s astonishment, a third time followed during the next hour. Satiated beyond his wildest dreams, he contentedly used the copious amounts of oozing cum to attack Neal’s shaft again. He liberally slicked the throbbing cock, and then leisurely licked off the alkaline stickiness. The sheets under his victim were now soaked in sweat and Neal’s moans had become weak. Not wanting to cause permanent damage to his lovely cock, Peter finally released the rope and snickered cruelly as white, viscous rivulets spurted from the swollen head. Peter lazily finger-painted designs across Neal’s chest with the ejaculate. The conman was now limp, with no fight left in him. Peter left him shattered and restrained, while he retreated to his cot where he slipped into an exhausted, deep sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

    It was late afternoon when Peter awakened, refreshed and satisfied, after a medley of vivid, erotic dreams. When he glanced over at Neal, he knew that the imprisoned conman was aware by the rigidity of his body. With no attempt at stealth, Peter sauntered over to the bedside and gazed down at the used and debauched man who visibly tensed even more. He noted that blood had trickled down Neal’s face from his nose and was now dried across his cheek. There was also dried blood on the sheets between his legs. Rope burns stood out on his ankles, and red abrasions encircled his wrists. Purple bruises and angry maroon contusions dotted his neck, chest, and thighs. He looked completely vulnerable and broken.

     Peter's voyeurism was interrupted when Neal suddenly ended the silence after taking a shuddering breath.

     “I know that you are right next to me and staring. It’s almost as if I can feel the intensity of your eyes.”

     When Peter didn’t respond, Neal continued. “I suspect that you are going to continue to………….well, do what you want to do to me until you get tired of doing it. Most likely, then you will probably strangle me or cut my throat. I know that I am not getting out of here alive. Just so you know, I’m not going to beg for my life. I think that I always knew that I would not live to be old. I just thought that the ending would be different.”

     Peter listened in fascination, as Neal drew a deep breath and continued his soliloquy.

     “I just said that I wouldn’t beg, but I guess that’s not entirely true. I’m asking you for one last request. Please, please make sure that someone finds my body. There are people in my life who need to know that I couldn’t come back to them. I have a girlfriend, and I don’t want her to wonder why I left her without a goodbye. I want her to know that I didn’t just abandon her, that I loved her always, and wanted to give her the world. She deserves an end to our story, even if it’s not the one that we both envisioned.

     And then I have a best friend who will obsessively continue to search for me. If he doesn’t see my body, he may begin to think that I was abducted by aliens. He’s a bit strange that way, but he’s kind of like the loyal and protective older brother that I never had, and I love him, quirks and all.

     I guess that I should add one more person to that list. There’s this FBI agent who has a vested interest in my status. We have had this peculiar relationship for years. It’s kind of odd, so it’s really hard to explain, but I think that we sort of respect each other, maybe even like each other a little bit. He would want to know that the ‘Where’s Waldo’ little game that we played has come to an end. He’s a busy man, so at least he can cross me off his ‘to do’ list and get on with his job of catching other ne’er-do-wells. I’d like to hope that maybe he’ll even miss me just a little bit.

     Well, that’s it, I guess. So, I am pleading with you to find a little humanity in your heart and leave me where someone will find me and take me home. Please.” Neal ended on a half-sob.

     Peter was caught unawares, and suddenly found that he had to retreat from the raw, poignant angst of the room. He stumbled to the kitchen and caught sight of his reflection in the old-fashioned wooden-framed mirror with the pegs for coats that stood next to the back door. He hardly recognized the professional, by-the-book federal agent who prided himself on his integrity. What he saw was the depraved visage of a predator without a soul staring back at him.

     Peter admitted to himself that he had wanted Neal Caffrey, the elusive conman on the “FBI’s Most Wanted List,” in the worst way. However, the finale of their ongoing chess game should have ended with a flourish where Neal’s king was tipped, not with the whimper of a traumatized victim who had given up hope. “Peter the Agent” had always wanted to prove his intellectual superiority and wherewithal in their game of cops and robbers. He coveted Neal’s respect for what he would have to acknowledge as Peter’s exceptional expertise and tenacity. Peter had never wanted to break the man who had just admitted that he liked and respected his adversary.

     Peter always knew that he had a dark side that, for the most part, he had kept in check. For the last several days, however, that evilness had come spewing out of him like lava from an erupting volcano. Neal was the catalyst that had caused Peter to become as broken as the young captive tethered to the bed. With literally both hands tied, Neal had just shown himself to be the better man, or, more accurately, a young kid who was morally superior to a jaded cop who just also happened to be a decadent, sadistic pervert.

     The older man felt the tension begin to build in his chest, his own sobs suddenly pushing through the tight band. Sinking into a chair, he dropped his head into his arms to muffle the sound of his anguish. Although a lapsed Catholic, he vaguely wondered if even the catharsis of confession would alleviate the pain. Enumerating his sins to a shadow behind a screen in the small confessional box seemed too easy a fix for horrific acts against the innocent. It would not change what he was—a sad facsimile of a human being who was destined to forever remember and be tormented by his sins. That would be his punishment—his perpetual penance.

     Eventually the torrent passed. Peter splashed cold water on his face, and prepared a glass of orange juice for Neal to which he had added double the dose of crushed sedatives. He needed his captive to be out for quite awhile. When he again approached the bed and nudged Neal’s cheek with the straw, the young man flinched and swung his head away.

     “It will make it easier,” Peter whispered softly.

     The agent thought he detected a slight nod when Neal turned his head back and began to drink. While Peter waited for the drug to take effect, he began to straighten the tiny cabin in preparation for a departure. It was past time to end this.

     When Peter noted that Neal’s breathing had slowed and his body had relaxed, he returned to the bed with a plastic basin, shampoo, and soap. He gently released each limb in turn, and finally removed the necktie from Neal’s eyes. With gentle hands, he washed the captive’s sweat-stiffened hair, and then soaped his face and body as he had done during those first few days to battle a raging fever. He applied aloe gel, foraged from the bathroom cabinet, to raw wrists and ankles. He placed a sterile dressing over the healing leg wound. Then he laboriously began to re-dress Neal in his original clothes, using a width of duck tape to close the jagged edges of the jeans on the upper right thigh. However, before he replaced Neal’s outer shirt, he perversely placed his own undershirt on the unconscious young man. It retained the pungent scent of Peter’s sexual arousal and his copious sweat.

     Peter knew that the sense of smell had the most powerful influence on memory. Smells initiate associative learning; they can trigger a conditioned response because your brain forges a link between the smell and a memory. Peter was making sure to forge that link with Neal, almost like marking his territory. Neal would indeed always remember him!

     When the young man was dressed, Peter carried him to the cot. He then stripped the soiled, bloody sheets from the bed. He would take the damning evidence with him and later burn them in his fire pit at home. Unused medical supplies would also have to be discarded in due time. Peter was nothing if not methodical. All traces of Neal needed to be obliterated from the cabin.

     It was early evening by the time Peter had cleaned up and packed the car. Once again, as he had done days before, he hoisted an unconscious Neal over his shoulder. This time, he folded him gently into the spacious trunk with a pillow under his head and a blanket over his body. As he drove, Peter was alone with only his thoughts for company as he returned to the city. He made just one brief stop at a convenience store. When he finally reached the familiar streets and avenues of the metropolis, he piloted the car to Lower Manhattan. He had a definite destination in mind.

     Years before, when Peter was in the process of assembling his team of off-the-grid indigents, one particular man stood out. Actually, he stood 6’6” tall, so it was no surprise that people noticed him. When Peter tried to speak to him, he was met with total silence. The huge man had liquid brown eyes that seemed knowing and kind, but a small smile was all the response that Peter got from him. When Peter inquired about him from others on the street, most simply claimed to know him as “The Dummy,” an aspersion to the fact that he was mute.

     Peter would never know why he was so intrigued with this particular homeless man. Perhaps it was the innate intelligence that he saw in those soft eyes. Perhaps it was the feeble attempt with appearances—the man’s long, dark hair always looked clean and was neatly pulled back in an elastic band. His clothes were patched and threadbare, but always appeared to have been laundered. He was a gentle presence, but fiercely protective of his constant companion, a feral cat that he had rescued from a storm drain. So, Peter used his resources at the Bureau to do some off-book digging. What he found was astounding.

     Gerald Fleishman was 37 years old and originally from New York City. As a child, he had been quickly identified as possessing an amazing, precocious mind. That genius IQ had won him admittance to MIT at the tender age of fifteen. He had numerous advanced degrees, but his true passion was astrophysics. He had attained tenure at the prestigious Cambridge university, where he was conducting research, when the breakdown occurred. One day, without warning, he simply went catatonic and never spoke another word. Up until five years ago, he had been hospitalized in a Massachusetts mental facility. The catatonia had resolved, but he still had not uttered even one syllable.

     The private institution where he had lived as an in-patient eventually closed its doors due to economic problems. Somehow, this quiet man got lost in the bureaucratic paper-shuffle, and was never relocated to another facility. One day, like a homing pigeon, he had found his way back to New York. His parents were now deceased, and his only relative was a sister who was not too keen on having her strange brother join her little nuclear family of a husband and two toddlers. Thus, Gerald lived on the street, silent and unassuming, with the perpetual smile on his face. He protected what was his, but was never a bother to anyone else.

     What Gerald now claimed as his own little piece of heaven was a snug, isolated space nestled under Canal Street. Many stations of the New York City subway system had fallen into disuse or had been abandoned when no longer used by the Transit Authority, or when the platform stops were changed. The homeless recognized the value in what others had forgotten. Many found refuge here, far from the dangers lurking above ground. This was now home for Professor Fleishman. He was able to stay safe and dry and relatively warm thanks to a small kerosene heater. Oil lamps softly illuminated his space. Over time, he had scavenged old discarded Oriental rugs, a small table, a cot, some dishes, and had even managed to find a small wicker basket for his cat. Physics and math textbooks were stacked neatly in the corner, and an antique blackboard, covered in equations, sat propped against a wall. Apparently, this was all that the scientist needed to make him happy.

     Peter knew that he would find the predictable man hunkered down tonight because of the late hour. He carefully made his way down long flights of concrete stairs carrying his heavy burden over his shoulder, as well as some plastic bags in his free hand. He had not been here in quite awhile, but he easily recognized the right tunnel when he saw the flickering of the lantern illuminating the shadows. As he rounded the corner, he was met by the imposing giant who had risen from his cot when he heard someone approach. He stood rigidly alert, cuddling his cat protectively in his arms.

     Peter nodded to him and then gently laid a sleeping Neal onto Fleishman’s cot. He brushed the hair from the conman’s forehead before standing up and facing the man whose home he had invaded without an invitation.

     “Dr. Fleishman,” Peter began, “I have brought someone to you who is in need of your protection for the night. He should awaken in the morning, and may need a little assistance on the stairs so that he can leave on his own. However, I am concerned about his safety until then.”

     The scientist looked long and hard at the unconscious young man, and then retrieved a thin blanket to cover him. He finally turned to Peter, mutely nodded his head, and the small, gentle smile returned. As an offering for services rendered, Peter had brought an assortment of canned goods, bread, peanut butter, and bottles of juice in those plastic bags. The only thing that Peter extracted from his gift was a pre-paid cell phone, already charged, that he easily slipped into Neal’s pocket.

     “Thank you, Professor. I know that you will watch over him,” was the last thing that Peter whispered as he left the dimly lit sanctuary.

     Once back in the familiar setting of his Brooklyn townhouse, the events of the last week took on a surreal quality for Peter. He briefly wondered if he was as mentally unbalanced as the scientist in the tunnel. Madness had manifested as catatonia and silence in Fleishman. Peter’s break with reality, however, was a manic and morbid violation of another human being. Was there an antidote or serum to fix that? He wondered how Neal would cope after the ordeal, and if he would ever intersect with Peter’s world again. Maybe he would just decide to grab his girl and run for the hills, far from Peter’s reach. Maybe the young lovers’ story would have a happy ending.

     Peter’s mind kept churning troubling thoughts over and over, as he lay in his own bed. His only solace was the pillow that had been under Neal’s head, and at other times under his hips, during his captivity in the cabin. Peter hugged it tightly to his chest and buried his face into its fullness. It smelled of Neal’s musk, and he inhaled the heady scent deeply into his lungs. The poignant memories that it tantalizingly evoked were the only things that finally allowed him to drift off to sleep.


End file.
